


Sour Kush

by alisvolatpropiis



Series: Sour Kush [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, College Student Stiles, Comeplay, First Kiss, First Meetings, Hairy Derek Hale is my religion, Hand Jobs, M/M, Marijuana, Rebuilding the Hale House, Stoned sexytimes, Stoner Derek, Tattooed Derek, stoner!Sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-14
Updated: 2014-08-14
Packaged: 2018-02-13 02:57:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2134521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alisvolatpropiis/pseuds/alisvolatpropiis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles mentally curses Erica, because in all of her warnings about how brusque this guy could be, she forgot mention that he’s also <em>hotter than the fucking sun</em>. If Stiles had any lingering questions about his sexuality, they’d be completely settled by what this guy is doing to him. In fact, he might not even be gay anymore. He might be in the midst of crossing into some yet-to-be-named sexuality that’s all about a scruffy black beard and alarming green eyes and muscles and tattoos and this guy’s <em>everything ever.</em></p><p>The guy’s name is Derek, his lust-addled brain supplies distantly.</p><p>Well that settles it, then. Stiles is Dereksexual.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sour Kush

**Author's Note:**

> Hahahaha this title - and this fic - is soooo ridic, but it's an actual strain I bought the other day and it inspired some stoner!Sterek, so here ya go! 
> 
> Speaking of stoner!Sterek, check out this [rad as fuck fanart](http://f0x-meets-w0lf.tumblr.com/post/76400034081/uh-yeah-sooo-have-some-inked-up-pierced-up-stoner), which also helped inspire this (and kinda all of my fics, because I just want everyone to be stoned all the time).
> 
> Thanks for reading!! xoxo

Stiles' only drug transactions have been with the econ major who lives down the hall from him in the freshmen dorm, so it’s not like he really knows, but he definitely has some expectations about what a drug dealer's house looks like, and this place is totally not living up to them. 

It’s two weeks into his summer break and he's back home in Beacon Hills working part-time at the library. He's already bored out of his mind and dying to get his hands on some pot, so here he is, in the middle of the preserve of all places with a hundred bucks in his pocket, sitting in his Jeep and scoping out the expansive house that's firmly on the shabbier side of shabby-chic.

It seems to be in the middle of a renovation, judging by the half-finished siding and the collection of tools on the unfinished porch. He texts Erica to make sure he got the directions right. She had said her friend was a bit of hermit who was rebuilding his family home, but Stiles still hadn't been anticipating this.

He had tried buying from Isaac Lahey first, who in high school supplemented the income from his creepy cemetery job by selling pot to anyone but Stiles, who he refused to “do business” with because his dad was the sheriff. Apparently that's still a sticking point for Isaac, because he refused to sell to him again when Stiles texted him last week. **I hope your seasonably-inappropriate scarf chokes you** , he texted back when Isaac said no.

After complaining about it to his coworker Erica, she set up a meeting with her friend. “Don’t be offended if he’s a little standoffish,” Erica had said. “He’s a good guy, but he doesn’t like people all that much.” Stiles was so excited for the hook up that he couldn’t have cared less about who this guy was or what his hang ups might be. 

But now, sitting in front of what was once a very nice, large home that – shit, looks like it was _burned_ , maybe pretty badly - he's starting to think that he should have asked some more questions.

 **You’re in the right place,** Erica texts back. **Just go knock on the door, you big baby.**

He rolls and his eyes and hops out of the Jeep, runs a hand through his hair. He walks up what look like recently rebuilt steps and knocks on the front door, rolling up on the balls of his feet as he waits, breath escaping his chest and stomach flipping when the door opens.

Stiles mentally curses Erica, because in all of her warnings about how brusque this guy could be, she forgot mention that he’s also _hotter than the fucking sun_. If Stiles had any lingering questions about his sexuality, they’d be completely settled by what this guy is doing to him. In fact, he might not even be gay anymore. He might be in the midst of crossing into some yet-to-be-named sexuality that’s all about a scruffy black beard and alarming green eyes and muscles and tattoos and this guy’s _everything ever._

The guy’s name is Derek, his lust-addled brain supplies distantly.

Well that settles it, then. Stiles is Dereksexual.

Derek’s wearing baggy gray sweats, draped low on his hips, low enough that there’s a razor-thin strip of toned abs peeking out from under the hem of his ratty white tank top. Almost all of the skin Stiles can see – a blessedly, cursedly unfair amount, given how tight and narrowly-cut that tank top is – is covered in gorgeous tattoos, skulls and flames, howling wolves and vines and intricate script that Stiles wants to read with his tongue. He looks to be older than Stiles by several years, late twenties probably, and he’s hulking and intimidating as hell and Stiles feels young and small and god, he shouldn’t like it so much but _he does_.

Derek is _staring_ at him, or maybe he’s just staring at Stiles staring at him, and yes, there’s totally a difference. His crosses his arms, making his biceps look even more bulging…speaking of _bulging_ …Stiles’ eyes flutter down, and fuck he’s probably biting his lip right now. He really shouldn’t be doing that while staring at the guy’s crotch, but those sweats are pretty damn baggy and he can still see the rough outline of….

He catches himself before he starts drooling, snaps his eyes back up to Derek’s face, those outrageous and unruly brows shaped in a harsh glare. “Hey man,” he says finally, breaking the way too-long silence. “I’m Stiles, Erica’s friend? She said you told her I could come by after seven?”

Derek stares at him for a beat longer before his glare softens. He doesn’t quite smile, but he looks less like he wants to rip his throat out, so he feels pretty good about it. “Stiles,” he responds slowly. “I’m Derek. Come in.” He shows him the way with a jerk of his strong, bearded jaw…that would probably feel unbelievable rubbing on the inside of his thighs, tickling against his balls, that full, wide mouth suckling…

Not that Stiles would even know what that actually feels like, never having been with anyone even barely resembling Derek. But he can imagine, and he imagines that it feels _good_. And not that if a blowjob were to happen with Derek, Stiles would be on the receiving end of it; no, Derek looks like the toppiest top that ever topped, and Stiles is definitely okay with that.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Derek says, leading him to a large, open living room before disappearing through a door into what looks like the kitchen, and Stiles is very happy to confirm, that yes, the back of him is just as drool-worthy as the front.

The inside of the house is in much better shape than the outside, like the bulk of the renovation budget has been spent on making the interior livable. And it’s more than livable, really, Stiles notices as he settles into a big, comfortable black couch. There’s a large flat screen TV on the wall, growly music pouring quietly from an expensive-looking sound system. The walls are blank and the furnishings are sparse, but everything is neat and clearly high-end, right down the sleek, black glass bong on the coffee table. Next to it is a red ceramic ashtray that looks to be old and handmade, a swirl of three connected spirals carved into the center, the only spot of color or character in the room.

Derek returns, still sinfully hot and grumpy-looking, tossing a can of Coors Light at him. It’s only because Stiles happened to be looking at his hands, at how big they are, that he catches it before it hits him in the face, Derek smirking a bit when he does, sitting down next to him on the couch, less than an arm's length away.

Yeah, this is not what Stiles expected at all.

From what Erica had said, he was anticipating a quick, terse exchange, a give-me-the-cash-here’s-some-weed-get-the-hell-out kinda thing. 

But Derek just told him to sit and gave him a beer and is sitting next to him, and _oh damn_ , he’s even more tempting up close. Now Stiles can see that his irises are flecked with coppery gold around the pupils and that there are shallow laugh-lines around his eyes, and that’s something he wants to see, Derek laughing. 

“Erica says you’re looking to buy,” he says, pulling Stiles’ eyes to his mouth, those big tattooed fingers cracking open his beer. His voice his gentle, makes Stiles think of a purring cat.

“Yeah,” he manages to croak out, popping open his beer and taking a long swallow. Freshmen year has left him with a taste for cheap beer, and the familiarity relaxes him a bit. “The best way to cure summer boredom, right?”

“I could think of a few others,” Derek says evenly, eyes on Stiles’ mouth.

 _Oh shit_.

He lets Stiles squirm under his gaze for a moment before leaning over to pick up a lacquered black box from the shelf under the coffee table. “You wanna smoke,” he asks, reaching for the bong. “Sample your purchase,” he adds wryly.

“Yeah, totally,” Stiles answers excitedly, moving closer to the edge of the couch. The hottest man he’s ever seen is offering to get him stoned, and he’s delighted and nervous as hell, a little stunned at this turn of events. 

“You smoke a lot,” Derek asks, loading the bowl.

“Not a ton, but yeah, a few times a week.”

“Probably that freshmen shit full of seeds and stems, huh?” He's smug and a little condescending, and it just makes Stiles like him more, goddammit.

“It’s not the best, but it gets the job done."

“This strain is called Sour Kush,” Derek says, taking Stiles’ beer from his hand, letting his fingers brush his. “It’ll more than get the job done.” He hands him the bong and a lighter before settling back against the couch. “Take it easy at first,” he warns.

Thankfully, Derek doesn’t watch him take the hit, because Stiles is nervous enough as it is and he’s only smoked from a bong twice before and he’s not sure he remembers exactly how. But he goes for it, _fake it till you make it_ having gotten him this far. He manages to take the hit cleanly, breathing in deep but not clearing it, heeding Derek’s warning.

It’s smooth and sweet and doesn’t burn his throat at all, and he holds it in as long as he can before handing the piece back to Derek, exhaling slowly. “Fuck,” he croaks, already starting to feel it.

The hit emboldens him enough to watch unabashedly as Derek takes his, scruff hollowing and contouring along the angular planes of his cheekbones and jaw, long black lashes fluttering.

It takes him a second to tear his eyes away even when Derek looks up at him as he exhales, thick smoke clouding around them, making him as dizzy as Derek’s answering grin.

 **~*~**

Stiles clears another hit on their second bowl, falling against the back of the couch, thoroughly and completely baked, body soft and heavy, mind blissfully calm. “Dude,” he mumbles, voice low and scratchy. “Grade A drugs. Well done, five out of five, would smoke again.”

Derek snorts, grabs the bong and takes the last hit before setting it back to the coffee table and leaning back next to him. He rolls his shoulders and stretches, groaning softly, sinking deeper into the cushions, his dense weight making Stiles fall towards him a bit. Derek just leans into it, lets their shoulders touch.

He’s been raking Stiles over with his eyes for a while now, a little bleary and bloodshot, his demeanor softening as they smoke, talking aimlessly. Or really, Stiles talking aimlessly and Derek letting him, asking dryly sarcastic questions and grunting occasionally.

But Derek seems okay with it, seems okay with _Stiles,_ and that makes him think of what Erica said about Derek not liking people, and fuck if that doesn’t make him feel extra warm, like he’s special, grateful for whatever it is about him that Derek seems to enjoy.

“You know,” Stiles chatters on, “you’re not what I was expecting from a drug dealer.”

Derek snorts again. “I’m not a drug dealer, Stiles.” He drags his name out with a low, lispy hiss, like he’s tasting it.

“Dude, ‘m pretty sure you’re dealing me drugs righ’now.”

“I’m a grower, not a - ” Derek says it with great seriousness and solemnity and Stiles erupts in giggles, cutting him off. Derek rolls his eyes playfully, like he’s exasperated but not putting much effort into it. “A _marijuana_ grower, you spaz. I supply a couple medical dispensaries in the area. I just hook up a few friends sometimes when I have a surplus.” 

“Oh,” Stiles says, eyes flitting across the flame tattoo that licks across Derek’s shoulder over his collarbone. “Well, thanks man. I really appreciate it.”

Derek shrugs, the movement rucking up the sleeve of Stiles’ t-shirt where it’s pressed against his shoulder, giving them skin-to-skin contact. “Erica said you were cool.”

Stiles can’t help it, but he suddenly finds himself wanting to know how well Erica knows Derek, just what their relationship actually is. The twist of jealousy threatens to ruin his buzz, so he tries, and fails, to force it from his mind. “Uh, how do you know Erica?”

He glances at him, eyes narrow. “That's not what you want to ask me _._ ” Derek looks over to his lap, and Stiles has been on his way to pretty hard for a while now, so he knows Derek can probably see how he’s tenting his khakis, probably notices the blush making his cheeks hot. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he replies, a valiant attempt to pretend he’s unaffected. 

“You want to know if Erica and I are sleeping together.”

Stiles gives his best scoff, rolling his own shoulders. “Whatever, dude. I don’t have any fucks to give about you and Erica.”

Those cursed eyebrows go up, silent but deadly.

“Alright, fine," Stiles sighs. "I have _a little bit_ of _a_ fuck to give.”

Now Derek does this new eyebrow thing, one crooking up hard and the other going down, and it’s just not fair, how adorable that is. “What exactly is ‘a little bit of a fuck?” 

“You know,” Stiles answers, grinning wide, “a little bit of a fuck…like, just the tip.”

Derek laughs, loud and big, eyes crinkling shut and nose scrunching up, and _oh damn_. 

**~*~**

Derek notches closer. “You like to jack off when you’re high,” he asks, voice liquid sex.

Stiles groans, because that’s only, like, one of his favorite activities. “Fuck yeah,” he huffs, starting to forget about trying to control his lust or playing it cool. 

“Show me,” Derek murmurs, quiet but firm, a gentle order. Stiles is stunned, just stares for a minute. “If you don’t want…” Derek trails off, sounding shy.

“Fuck, I want,” Stiles cuts him off, scrambling for his fly, gasping when he frees his flushing cock.

Stiles isn’t a virgin, but he’s not exactly super experienced either, but he’s pretty sure all the experience in the world wouldn’t prepare him for this, for how _hungry_ Derek looks, chest tightening with the look of pure lust on his face as he watches him jack off. He lets his fingers tease at the slit, slicking up a bit before moving back down his shaft, eyes nearly rolling back in his head at how fucking insanely hot this is. It’s so good, being watched like this, body languid and loose, dick throbbing even harder when Derek starts to palm himself through his sweats. “You ever gotten head while high,” he asks, licking his lips. 

“No,” Stiles breathes, hand wrapping tight around his base, groaning and heart racing. 

Derek slides to his knees on the floor, wedges himself between his splayed legs, pulls off his shirt. “Oh god,” Stiles whispers at the sight if his bare torso, exquisite lines of hard muscle illustrated and dusted with coarse, dark hair.

He watches Stiles watch him again for a minute, then yanks at his khakis, jerks them and his underwear down until they bunch at the top of his knees.

Stiles was right. That beard feels _incredible_ against the inside of his thighs, bristly but soft, stinging when Derek presses harder after he moans and hisses a bit. 

For awhile there’s nothing but the simmering hiss of the blood in his veins, Derek’s mouth engulfing his cock in a mess of wet heat, small little slurping noises harmonizing with Stiles’ moans.

Derek’s hands reach under him and cup his ass, giving a good squeeze, tips of fingers just barely grazing across his entrance. He manages to choke out a warning just in time, and Derek pulls off, eyes big and wide as he watches Stiles come on to the thatch of dark hair on his chest.

Stiles feels like he’s melted, dissolved into a puddle of pure, sparkling pleasure, body humming with sultry warmth, quivering with the reverberations of the best orgasm he’s ever had. He’s so raptured and dazed that it takes him a minute to remember that he wants to reciprocate, wants to make Derek feel good too. “Come ‘ere,” he mumbles, grabbing for Derek clumsily, slicking his hand through the mess he just made on those carved pecs.

Derek gets his sweats down and darts forward, still on his knees on the floor, red mouth crashing against his just as Stiles gets his sticky hand around his thick cock. His kiss is just as sloppy and hot as his blowjob, and Stiles falls apart a little bit more. He's never tasted himself on someone else’s tongue before; it’s weird but he likes it, likes whatever Derek does, really, every touch of his rough hands and soft lips sparking an intensity he’s never felt before, wants to keep feeling.

His strokes are uncoordinated but eager, and Derek comes with a groan, still kissing him, surging warmly onto Stiles’ half-hard and twitching cock, hands clutching at the back of Stiles’ neck, collapsing forward when he finishes.

Derek manhandles him until he’s lying on his back, crawling on top of him like a puppy with too-big paws, burying his face in his sternum. His body is solid, big arms wrapping around him to clutch at his waist.

Stiles lets a hand fall to his head, running it tentatively through his lustrous hair, smiling when Derek sighs heavily, happily.

This isn’t at all what he was expecting, he thinks again, getting comfortable.

**Author's Note:**

> Come [tumble](http://deleted-scenes.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
